Mrs. Joyner looks back and forth between Joe and her husband, her face shifting from panic to horror.

“Then it’s settled,” Mr. Joyner says. “We’ll put off Aunt Tildy as she requests, and you shall use the remainder of our waterborne voyage to practice your culinary skills for our principal journey west.”

The ensuing silence is long.

In a near whisper, Mrs. Joyner says, “If you think it’s best.” I almost feel bad for her. Almost. I’ve never heard of anyone who couldn’t cook a blessed thing. Even my daddy could make coffee or fry up bacon or spit a rabbit.

After many tearful farewells, the family puts Aunt Tildy ashore at the next settlement. I hang back, because it’s none of my business, but I can’t stop staring after her. Tildy was the only one of the Joyner party to show me any kindness, and now she’s gone.

Chapter Fourteen

We drift for days down the meandering Tennessee River, first through Alabama, and it feels strange to head south after I spent so much time trying to go north. But soon enough the river twists up through Tennessee toward Kentucky, ultimately aiming for the Ohio. Our journey is cold and wet, and at mealtimes, we huddle by the stove while Mrs. Joyner tries her hand at cooking. She pretends to ignore us, but our hovering must make her nervous because we end up with burned flapjacks and runny grits every time.

Occasionally, we land to get supplies and stretch the horses’ legs. I’m glad for the opportunity to care for my personal needs in privacy, but I don’t breathe easy until we’re back on the river. More often than not, we go days without stopping, and I’m forced to duck down in Peony’s stall and use a slop bucket. I don’t dare remove my clothing to launder it. My shirt becomes stiff and stained.

The nights we do put to shore, Mr. Joyner always tries to find other gentlemen for a game of cards, even though Mrs. Joyner prevails upon him not to go. I think about the brothers and their plan to rob card players along the river, about Uncle Hiram and Abel Topper, and I sit on the roof unable to sleep because I’m keeping watch. The fact that I never see them is no reassurance. I didn’t see the brothers coming the last time.

Each morning, I muck stalls. During the afternoons, Joe teaches me to pole, using a piece he helped me cut from a long, skinny spruce. The work is no harder than what I’m used to, and indeed, some of it is a good deal easier. With so much feed and so little exercise, Peony fattens up, and her winter coat grows in thick and lovely. I don’t begrudge her one bit; she’ll need a store of strength for what’s ahead.